


Superman

by Sloshi



Category: Naruto
Genre: AU, Abused Sakura, Angst, Caring Sasuke, Depression, Drug Use, F/M, Father abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Rape, Romance, Self Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, bad home life, highschool, home abuse, mature - Freeform, severe trigger warnings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22473979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sloshi/pseuds/Sloshi
Summary: Unbelievably, miraculously, there is an anomaly to the unremitting blackness that permeates my every cell and burrows into my bones. A single constant in contrast to the twisted torment and pain that plagues my poor excuse of a life. His name is Sasuke Uchiha. Sasusaku (DARK home life) (Not for faint hearted)
Relationships: Haruno Sakura/Uchiha Sasuke
Comments: 12
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> SEVERE TRIGGER WARNINGS!!! This fic is not for the light hearted and contains very GRAPHIC depictions of rape/non-con and suicidal thoughts, abuse and self harm. Please do not read this fic if any of this makes you uncomfortable.

_**Superman** _

Prologue

x

Someone once told me you don’t have to feel safe to feel unafraid.

I don’t really remember who told me this. Maybe it was a stranger whose face I can’t remember. Or maybe I overheard it on one of the soapy TV shows Mom leaves on all night, long after she’s passed out on the couch, comatose and surrounded by nirvana in the shape of hypodermic needles.

Maybe I read it somewhere on a magazine cover, saw it on a billboard sign. The point is, I’ve never stopped thinking about it. It’s been years, but I still catch myself wondering what it means or why it resonates in the back of my mind like lyrics to a song I can’t remember.

I don’t think I’ll ever know, but I’d like to believe there’s a reason these words float around my psyche like a leaf swept up by a passing breeze. Sometimes, like tonight, it drifts to the surface of my mind. Somehow always breaking through the morbidly wicked thoughts that perpetually drown my soul and make me question my sanity.

But I also kind of hate those words, because even if I don’t fully understand them, I already know the meaning will only taunt me with hope I’ll never find.

Because a long time ago, I came to the conclusion that I am diseased. An incurable sickness inflicted upon my soul by a demon dressed in flesh and bone. The devil himself wearing the face of my father whose hands dig into my hips, paint my soft skin in black and claret, and tears my body in two with a fire that burns from the inside out and leaves me in a ceaseless agony that never strays too far for too long.

I was the quintessence of all that’s broken, and all that will never heal.

As I watch the blades of my ceiling fan spin languidly in the silver moonlight spilling from the window, those words claw their way to the forefront of my mind. And again, reluctantly, I find myself wondering what it means. 

“I don’t have to feel safe to feel unafraid.”

A silent whisper in the dark, I repeat the words to myself. Like saying them aloud might magically make me comprehend their meaning. I test the words on my tongue, but no matter how many times I say them, no matter how many times the words echo in the dark caverns of my conscious, I don’t think I get it.

I fall asleep when the first kiss of sunlight stretches across the walls and the chirping of birds fill the empty silence, thinking maybe I never will.

When I walk to school in the morning, the unyielding September rain dampens my ratted hoodie and frizzes the pink tendrils stuffed in the confines of my hood. The makeup slathered on my face conceals far more than just the dark crescents under my eyes, and the music plugged into my ears deafen the thoughts that rot my soul.

Everyday, I spend each class glued to the windows, far away from the reaches of reality. Unfocused, my green eyes follow the racing trails of water as they trickle down the windowpane, wishing I could be something so trivial as a raindrop. Wishing I could be anything but Sakura Haruno.

In the halls, my eyes never lift from the linoleum beneath my worn out shoes, hiding within the sea of passing bodies that make me feel perfectly invisible. But I’ve always had this penchant for disappearing, so going unseen, unnoticed, obscure to the hundreds of eyes around me fills me with a strange comfort. There’s just something about being in a crowd that makes you feel camouflaged—makes you feel like nobody’s watching.

It gives me a kind of freedom that I seldom understand. But I take the comfort because comfort is a luxury I seldom have.

Because _comfort_ is a foreign concept for people such as myself. And by that, I mean those who know what it’s like to suffer in silence when all you want to do is fucking scream.

Every step I take is full of scorching flames that lick up the tender skin of my upper thighs, where the sting of fifty red lines hide beneath chafing black leggings, echoing the agony of my heart. Where the pain pleads for an outlet, begging to be unleashed in a flurry of sharp edges and desperate fingers and crimson rivulets and trembling tears in moments of weakness.

Every step I take reminds me of the sickening pain between my thighs, where the devil takes his sweet time pounding the humanity out of me. Where he rips me apart with his talons and shackles his _little girl_ in the dusk of his bedroom, forcing my cheek to the cold wooden floor with his claws twisted in my hair and a roar that surpasses my screams.

As much as I hate myself, there comes a point in life when you realize that some circumstances just can’t be changed. That no matter how much you wish you could trade lives with someone else—thinking that perhaps the grass is greener on the other side, that maybe their pain is only a fraction of your own suffering, that maybe life would be a little less difficult if you were _anyone else_ —you just can’t.

I was born as Sakura Haruno, and I will die as Sakura Haruno.

I’ve long since accepted my fate and the torment that entails my existence. I’ve long since accepted that if there is a god, his back is turned. I’ve accepted that every day is a mirage of black and blue blurred into a continuous stream of fists and tears and screams and torture that my mind attempts to block out in a desperate attempt at self-preservation.

I’ve accepted the voice in my head that insists I survive _until tomorrow_ long after tomorrow has come and gone.

At least, I think I’ve accepted it.

Because I’m living a nightmare haunted by my inability to change it. Each day that I wake up, with sleep still dusting my eyes and my conscious on the cusp of coherence, my first thought is that the worst is over, and that everything until now has merely been a nightmare—that when I look in the mirror I won’t see green eyes and pink hair, but someone else staring back. That when I go downstairs, I will see the face of a loving mother whose skin isn’t gaunt and sunken like a sentient skeleton wearing her flesh setting the table for breakfast, and a caring father whose fingernails aren’t caked with the blood of his daughter’s innocence, flipping flapjacks on the stove.

But when I _actually_ wake up, green eyes and pink hair stare back at me between the cracks spiderwebbed across the bathroom mirror—courtesy of the time I accidentally knocked _his_ tooth brush on the floor, and was rewarded with plucking out shards of glass from my cheeks for days after he smashed my face into my own reflection.

When I go downstairs, the kitchen is dark and the shell of my mother is dead to the world, passed out on the couch with a tourniquet strapped above her purpling elbow as her arm hangs limp, fingertips brushing the stained carpet. Syringes, cigarette butts, and dirty dishes clutter the coffee table. Flies buzz and dance over the evidence of her failure as a mother, while the bright light of the unwatched TV flickers across the bruises marring her sallow sleeping face.

Blessedly, _he_ is nowhere to be found.

And so everyday that I wake up and find that he is somehow gone before me in the morning, I thank any god that is willing to hear me as I lean over the couch and listen to make sure Mom is still breathing, before I kiss her forehead and silently slip out the door.

And most days when I return home, on the days after school when I am unable to convince Ayame to let me waitress later than eight o’ clock at the diner, _he_ waits for me.

My heart is racing before I even reach the driveway. Some nights he’s passed out before I return, some nights he’s nowhere to be found. But It’s always a gamble because some nights, I walk in just in time to see him satiating his hunger by slamming his hips into my unconscious mother instead.

I don’t know which is worse.

The house is always dark, but the moment I slip through the door and find his beady eyes gleaming in the shadows and the silhouette of his form lurking in the blackness, I know it’s about to get even darker.

He prowls forward like a predator with salivating jaws, hungry for pain and horny for his own flesh and blood, and is dragging me by my pink locks up the stairs before I even have a moment to choke on a plea. I kick my legs, thrashing violently to try and twist out of his grip that nearly yanks my hair right out of my scalp. But the deep, maniacal laughter that freezes the blood in my veins and echos in the darkest recesses of my nightmares reminds me that he loves it the most when I struggle.

When he finally manages to drag me into the pits of hell, the side of my face is slammed against the floorboards so hard my teeth clatter and I see stars. My leggings are ferociously yanked and ripped off my thighs despite the desperate clawing of my nails scratching and pulling to keep the thin fabric on my body.

I thrash and I scream and I fight until my throat burns and black mascara bleeds down my bruised cheeks, but the devil threads his talons in my hair and forces my face to the floor with a strength that I am never able break. His physical might eclipses the fragility of my body, and to challenge him is akin to the wind against a mountain.

When my undergarments are forced down the back of my thighs and I am bare under his heartless gaze, he proceeds to rupture what’s left of my soul.

I never get used to the pain.

No matter how hard I flail my arms, no matter how bloodcurdling my screams reverberate off every wall, no matter how many tears flood beneath my cheeks and soak my face and plaster my hair to my sticky skin, he shows me no mercy.

“ _Oh god, please—_!” I mindlessly plead and beg, words and prayers ripping out of my throat in reckless abandon, hoping in the back of mind that maybe the right words might one day stumble out of my mouth and finally stop him. “ _I’m your daughter!_ ”

“I know.” He tells me, and fucks me harder for it.

I blindly reach back and try to scratch at his face, at his eyes, anything that will make him fucking _bleed_ and _hurt_ and _suffer_. I manage to knick something, maybe his shoulder, maybe his face; my satisfaction in managing to lay a scratch on him doesn’t last for long.

“ _You—worthless—fucking—cunt!_ ” He hisses between haggard breaths, yanking my head back by my hair and slamming my face into the floorboards over and over and over again, pounding into my body wildly to make sure I feel every inch of his fury. At this point I have no grasp on reality; the blows to my face rattle my brain and I’m left dazed and confused, eyes rolling around in my skull.

His angry fists rain down on every centimeter of my body he can reach, knuckles digging into my fragile bones and painting my skin the color of sunset. I feel the pressure from every impact, feel my staccato gasps bursting from my lips with every strike, but I’m too disoriented to feel the pain and the adrenaline running rampant in my veins does its best to dull the agony.

The moment coherence finds me again, I’m already defeated—vanquished by a monster with the promise of death in his eyes and whisky on his breath. I lay empty, numb, and silent as my body is used and broken. I focus on a spot on the far wall, eyes hallow.

I spend the rest of time thinking of all the ways I can kill him.

When the devil finishes his deed and I lay shattered beneath him, he yanks my head back and smashes my face into the floorboards one last time for good measure.

“Get the fuck out of my sight.” He stands, sniffing with a quick swipe of a finger under his nose, and delivers a swift kick to my ribs, knocking what’s left of the oxygen out of my lungs. “The next time you put your fucking hands on me, I’ll break them into pieces.” He wipes the sweat off his thick brows. “You stupid, fucking whore.”

I scramble onto my feet, stumbling dizzily and drenched in shame, trembling fingers pulling up what’s left of the fabric gathered at my ankles. Quivering sobs break through my lips as I stagger blindly through the dark hallway to the solace of my room, shoulders slamming into the wall when sudden vertigo makes the world spin. I can’t see anything through the searing pain pounding behind my blurry eyes; I trip numerous times over my own two feet, hands desperately flying out to grab at anything to keep me from falling onto my face.

His rasping, wicked laugh echoes behind me as he watches my pathetic attempt at escape, and I know that if I had a gun with ten bullets, I would press the barrel between his eyes and pull the trigger ten times.

Once I finally make it into my room, I slam the door shut and lock it with fingers that shake uncontrollably. Tears stream down my face in rivers, heart thundering in my chest so fast I think I’m actually dying. I then stumble to the side of my bed and drop to the floor, where I reach beneath the bed frame and fumble blindly—desperately—for an object I keep hidden at all times. When smooth cardboard brushes against my fingertips, I grab hold of the box and tug it out.

On my bed, I hold the box in my lap and lift the lid, revealing various sharp objects that I’ve collected over the years for when I finally decide to slit his throat. Every inch of my body aches and stings and pulsates with pain, as if I was just trampled by a stampede of horses with nails in their hooves.

But nothing— _nothing_ —compares to the pain in my chest. Where my heart palpitates and stutters with every ragged breath that trembles out of my lungs. Where my heart is tattered and ripped open by the absence of love I have been denied all my life. Where I _ache_ for redemption, for mercy, for forgiveness for whatever I’ve done to deserve a life filled with so much anguish and a darkness that consumes my soul.

Nothing compares to the wound in my chest that is lacerated and split open over and over again. And god— _god_ , I want nothing more than to take the gleaming blade I’ve just pulled out of the box and drag it up the line of my wrists and end it all. I want to lay under the safety of my blankets, let every drop of blood seep out of my body until I am as still and unmoving as my mother in the living room below me.

But I don’t. Instead, I drag my leggings down just enough to expose my already shredded and scabbed upper thighs, and I slice between the preexisting deep red lines that cover nearly every inch of my pale flesh. I cut through my skin again and again, relishing in the sharp, stinging pain that absorbs the agony rippling through my body like a sponge. Every slash brings me a little closer to sanity as the intense burning sting begins to override every thought, every ache.

Scarlet rivulets gather and bleed down the side of my thighs like teardrops, staining the white of my bedsheets. I finally start to breathe again.

I love my mother, you see. And as much as I want to hate her—to damn her to fucking hell for breeding with the devil himself and allowing him to use her own daughter as a fuck toy, as much as I want to slap her senseless for leaving me to fight for my life while she sleeps the years away in our living room—I can’t help but love her.

Because every time I look at her sunken face, all I see is the mother who used to wait for me outside of kindergarten with a dazzling smile on her lips, squatting with hands outstretched as I jump into her waiting arms and wrap my tiny hands around her neck.

_“Mommy!”_

_“Hi, baby!”_

Every time I walk past her limp form, all I remember is the mother who made me hot cocoa when I was sick in bed, and kissed my forehead goodnight before flipping off the lights.

_“Mommy?”_

_She lingers in the doorway._

_“Yes?”_

_“Daddy scares me.” I tell her._

_She is quiet for a long time, and then a whisper so soft I almost don’t catch it._

_“Me, too.”_

_The door snicks shut behind her._

And so I have to stay alive to protect her, if nothing else. I have to put on a brave face and endure the torment like I’ve endured it everyday since _that_ day.

I was six years old when the devil first revealed his face. I was six years old when he first took me. He coaxed me away from my birthday party, away from watching eyes. He smelled a little funny, but I didn’t mind. “ _Let’s play a game_ ,” he said to me. “ _A special game just for big girls. Are you a big girl?”_

 _“Yes_ ,” I had told him with a smile that could have blinded the sun, slipping my tiny hand into his waiting claws. “ _I’m six now, so that means I’m a super_ duper _big girl! You already know that, Daddy!”_

 _“Yes,”_ he laughed, leading me further and further away from the light, _“Yes I do.”_

And when he took me into his room, locked the door, and slipped the blindfold over my eyes, I suddenly didn’t want to play a game anymore.

 _“Daddy . . . ?”_ A small whisper trembled in the dark.

But he slapped duck tape over my mouth and my innocence flew away on angel wings, slipping through the cracked window and over the oblivious heads of party-goers, over the pulsing vibration of music, over the cursive writing scribbled on birthday cake.

**_Happy 6th birthday Sakura!_ **

It disappears into the blue sky and never comes back.

_“Stop crying, you little shit, or I’ll really give you something to cry about.”_

Since then, I have never known what it’s like to be free. For twelve years, I have never known anything more, or anything less than the black splotches that paint my body, degrading slurs in the shape of knives, and a perpetual ache between my thighs.

For twelve years, my life has been nothing but a spiraling disaster. A never ending nightmare fueled by my cowardly fear and a devil’s penchant for pain.

But there is one exception.

Unbelievably, miraculously, there is an anomaly to the unremitting blackness that permeates my every cell and burrows into my bones. A single constant in contrast to the twisted torment and pain that plagues my poor excuse of a life.

His name is Sasuke Uchiha.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

_**Superman** _

Chapter 1

x

Sasuke sits at my lunch table everyday—or rather, I sit at _his_ lunch table everyday. He’s a football player, the quarterback, but he’s the furthest thing from a jock you’ll ever meet.

I don’t sit at his table because I’m popular, I sit there because my best friend is; Ino has boobs and an ass that has every pair of eyes turning in her direction, and curves that give even the male teachers whiplash.

Over the summer, after weeks of back and forth nonsense, Naruto Uzumaki had finally asked Ino to be his girlfriend. He’s the linebacker for the football team, so naturally the title as _Uzumaki’s girl_ places her at the top of the food chain, if being outrageously beautiful didn’t already do so.

But because she’s my best—and _only_ —friend, when she relocated from our usual spot to her new boyfriend’s lunch table, I had trailed after her like a lost puppy, unable to fathom sitting somewhere without her. And because she’s a better friend than I deserve, she had gladly insisted I join her at their table; the _cool_ table, despite my bizarre disposition and the simple fact that I’m . . . well, _not_ cool.

The first time she brought me to the table, I couldn’t bring myself to lift my eyes and brave the judgement that was undoubtably written on everyone’s face. The confusion in everyone’s gaze as they drank in my disheveled appearance and the trembling hands that rubbed together in my lap.

I had recognized most of them from Ichiraku’s, because the football team, and sometimes the cheerleaders, came in after almost every practice and every game. I waited on them often, but it was then that I realized that I must have been far more invisible than I once thought, for not one of them seemed to recognize me in return.

I didn’t belong there, and I knew by the stretching silence that they thought so too.

Ino had simply laughed, but I know her well enough to know she had been anxious, that she was unsure whether my inclusion was worth the possible damage to her reputation. She introduced me quickly, and when everyone slowly but surely welcomed me, I stammered a thank you and took the only unoccupied seat.

Right across from a boy with the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen and a face made of stone. He’s just as silent as me, if not more so, and the entirety of his essence is the personification of night itself.

Other than a passing glance, I didn’t dare look his way even once.

All around me, everyone was intimidating. Every pair of uncertain eyes drifted my way periodically, like I was some wild animal bound to unhinge my jaws and snap at any moment. But more than anything, I felt like an intruder, a foreigner; a trespasser in a world I didn’t belong.

As the weeks passed, however, they gradually grew used to my reserved presence; a shadow with pink hair who only packs a cup of jello for lunch and quietly scribbles pictures in my journal at the table—like an obedient six year old who waits for their mom to finish speaking to the receptionist at the doctors office.

Now, one month later, they greet me everyday when I arrive, and it’s the best part of my day. It makes me feel validated, like they genuinely care about my existence, even if they have no idea how worthless and broken I am behind red-rimmed eyes. Even if it’s just a false sense of belonging. Sometimes, albeit rarely, they go so far as to include me in their conversations. But more often than not, I just flash them a small, tentative smile and return my gaze to whatever picture I’m working on that day. When they all come into the diner after football, they ask for me by name and leave me generous tips that fund my survival.

In my head, I thank them over and over again, so heart wrenchingly grateful for their acceptance, even if the reluctance that still lingers behind some of their eyes reminds me that I am, and will always be, an outsider.

But I don’t let myself get attached—I don’t cling to their acceptance, don’t let myself open up; I hide behind pink bangs and timid smiles, perfectly content with their fixed distance.

It’s for the best.

Because the thing is, I erect walls that protect others from the negativity that oozes out of my soul, because I never want to infect these _good_ people with my wretched disease. I’m infested, a worthless whore, a used piece of trash—I’m disgusting. My skin is stained with the hand prints of the devil and my insides are shredded by the absence of mercy. The scarlet slits that line my thighs are a reflection of my cowardice.

Not one of them have a clue.

Not even Ino, my closest friend, knows what really happens behind closed doors. She knows Mom is an addict, knows Dad is an alcoholic, but she doesn’t know the half of it. She doesn’t know that most nights are spent screaming, crying out for a god that isn’t there and rotting away in a broken house that will **never** be home.

She doesn’t know that Satan himself lives among us, and that the slits on my thighs are but an infinitesimal fraction of the pain.

Ino is my best friend. And even though she and I have grown a little distant over the years, courtesy of my fear of infecting someone as pure as she, she will _never_ bear the burden of my problems. And as much as I trust her, as much as I want to tell her—tell _anybody_ and _everyone_ —about the torment that twists my soul, I can’t.

Because I made a deal with the devil.

 _“Now, you listen to me, and you listen real good.”_ He had said to me, crouching to my level and grabbing my round cheeks with fingertips that bruise, holding my petrified expression in place. In his other hand, he lifted an object that glinted in the flickering kitchen light above us. _“You see this?”_

With terror-struck eyes glued to the frightened little girl staring back at me from the knife’s reflection, I had swallowed, nodding fiercely against the giant hand squeezing my face so hard that my baby teeth cut into the walls of my mouth.

 _“You ever tell anyone, and I fucking mean_ **anyone** _—I don’t give a fuck if it’s the neighbor, the teacher, a fucking dog—I don’t give a shit who. But if you ever tell anyone about our little game, I will bring you into the living room and make you sit and watch me slit Mommy’s throat.”_ His rancid, whisky breath puffed against the wet tears rolling down my bruised cheeks and over his long fingers gouged into my skin. His beady eyes hardened with excitement, ragged voice dripping with venom. _“So let’s make a deal.”_

I whimpered desperately in his brute grip, trembling with terror and nearly pissed myself in fear when he pressed the sharp, gleaming tip of the knife under my quivering chin.

_“You keep our little secret safe, and I won’t spill Mommy’s insides all over the carpet. Deal?”_

My knees shook, threatening to give way under my small body. Too frightened to speak, my tongue unwisely remained still. My silence only served to feed the flames.

 _“Are you fucking DEAF?!”_ He had screamed suddenly, and I jumped nearly six feet in the air at the thunder of his booming voice reverberating through my bones. He shook my face vigorously in his hand, fingers digging even further into my cheeks as he jarred my face left and right. I winced at the excruciating pain, eyes pinched shut. _“I said—do we have a_ ** _DEAL_** _?!”_

 _“Yes!”_ I cried out through smushed lips, my six year old body shaking with sobs, disoriented with indescribable fright. _“Ple—please don’t kill Mommy!”_

And so for twelve years and counting, I have never told a single living soul my secret.

And I never will.

\- x -

I don’t hold eye contact with anyone for very long because I have this itching paranoia that if they look hard enough, they’ll see the bruises that blot my skin beneath the layers of foundation. Except, I know it’s impossible because the concealer I buy is specifically for tattoos, so the coverage is near flawless. But my heart still races when eyes linger a little too long, and so each and every day, I keep my head down like I’ve been trained to do for years.

Each and everyday, I am content with being a shadow. It’s mutual, really—a symbiotic relationship. So as not to bother Ino’s friends, I keep to myself, and in return they allow me to sit in the vicinity of my best friend. Paying no real attention to anyone at the table, other than returning their polite greetings, I quietly mind my buisness, secretly enjoying the happiness in Ino’s voice as she gushes about anything and everything. Sometimes she and Naruto peck lips and I can’t help but smile a little to myself at their contentment.

Other than this, I remain in my bubble, eyes never leading astray from my ragged little journal I’ve kept close for two years; sketched black and white faces decorating nearly every page, and stroked, charcoal eyes glistening with misery filling the spaces in between.

I’m perfectly okay with this routine. Satisfied, even.

But then, one day, something strange happens.

It happens on a Friday, when the entire school is bursting with team spirit, and fun green and gold streamers string across the hallways in preparation for a home game. Football is big in our small town, so it’s no surprise that it’s all anyone can talk about all day long. There’s energized whooping and hollering all throughout the corridors, people hopping up to snag at the flimsy decorations and horse playing as the students find a way to channel their excitement. 

The hype only increases towards the end of the day, and all the pent up energy in the building is nearly tangible. Everyone is restless and rowdy, eager to run out the doors and throw on their jerseys and ripped jeans; ready for tailgates, hotdogs, and a good time.

It’s between the exchanging of classes that it happens—just before the last period of the day. The halls buzz with activity, students rushing to find their friends to discuss who’s riding with who to the football game after school, and which afterparty is going to be the sickest. Other kids dick around, unable to abstain from immaturity. They push people out of their way and shove others into lockers, grunting and hollering across the hallway: “KO-NO—!”

“ **HA**!” Everyone shouts back, naturally finishing the school chant. The entire school sounds like they’re preforming an ancient ritual. Some pound their fists on the lockers in sync with the chant and others pump their fists to the ceiling.

“KO-NO—!”

“ **HA**!”

I can barely squeeze my way to my locker with all the fuss and commotion, and if one more person steps on my foot, I might just turn around and Ko-no- _hit_ someone in the face. I push through the sea of green and gold bodies with as much finesse as I can manage without someone snapping at me _._ I just want to get to my locker.

I’m almost to my destination, when someone suddenly decides to slap everything right out of my hands as they pass by with a _smack!_ that scares the living hell out of me. I watch in horror as everything scatters across the floor—loose papers fly right of my folders, and my books, binder, and journal flap open for the whole world to trample on.

I don’t see who does it, I just hear a group of booming male laughter behind me and I fluster in embarrassment, dropping to the floor and scrambling to scrape up everything before dirty footprints soil all of my things. A million shoes carelessly step on my belongings, and nearly smash my fingers in the process.

“Oh, come _on!_ ” I hiss in exasperation when someone steps on the paper I am just about to grab.

Frustrated, I instead reach out to snatch one of my books—

Only for deft, pale fingers to beat me to it.

My eyes shoot up in surprise, and only increase in size when I see dark, spiky locks and broad shoulders right in front of me. He crouches low on one knee, clad in his green and gold football jersey, and in the middle of the hallway, in front of everyone, the quarterback gently picks up every single one of my lost possessions.

I watch in shock, so utterly baffled by his kind gesture that I am afraid to move, afraid to blink—just in case I’m dreaming. His face betrays nothing; obsidian eyes remain passive and unreadable as he reaches out, gathers all of my stuff in his hands, and finally offers them to me. When our eyes meet, my heart kickstarts inside my chest and all I can do is stare at him.

“. . . T-Thank you.” I stammer breathlessly, wondering if he has even the slightest clue how much his gesture means to me. “Thank you, Sasuke.”

Sasuke nods, and I slowly reach out to take my things from him. I freeze, however, heart nearly bursting out of my chest, when his warm fingers brush along mine. I startle at the touch, unfamiliar tingles bursting like explosions inside of me at the contact, filling me with an exhilaration I have never before felt in my entire life.

But, if there’s one thing in this world that I recognize—it’s fear.

I realize, by the strange electric spiders dancing along the seams of my stomach, that I’m suddenly _terrified_. It overrides the initial butterflies that had fluttered pleasantly in my stomach just seconds ago. Moisture gathers in my palms, heart galloping at supersonic speed as I replay the feel of his warm fingers gliding along mine. Physical contact isn’t something I’m used to—at least, not physical contact without the _pain_.

In response to his touch, my body is already on defense; ready to claw and fight for my life. Even something so trivial as fingers brushing along mine; my subconscious registers the contact as a threat, and adrenaline is already pumping through my veins in overdrive.

After enduring years of physical abuse—naturally, I panic.

Still crouched on one knee, he’s less than an arm’s length away from me. I wonder if he can see how fast my chest is heaving.

 _Calm down_ , I beg myself. _Calm down._

He holds my gaze for just a moment longer, but it feels as if I’ve been stuck in those dark obsidian pools for an eternity. Up close, the sharp bangs framing his high cheek bones, falling over the soft elegance of his facial structure, catches me totally off guard.

I’m breathless before my lungs can even properly expand.

I haven’t looked somebody in the eyes for this long in so many years. And yet, here I am, staring Sasuke Uchiha dead in the eyes like a deer in headlights, incapable of looking away.

“Sorry,” He murmurs quietly on behalf of the guys’ behavior, an apologetic gentleness to his eyes that would have gone unseen if I wasn’t merely a foot away from his face. Despite the obnoxious commotion all around us, the tender baritone of his voice reaches me as if he were whispering the words into my ear.

His eyes flicker over my shoulder, a dangerous gleam replacing the tenderness in his dark orbs as he refers to the assholes who must be snickering not too far behind my back. The corners of his mouth twitch downward in disapproval. “This won’t happen again, Sakura.”

My name rolls off of his tongue for the first time and I simply stare in response, too stunned to speak.

Cheeks burning like hot coals, I crane my neck to follow his tall, imposing form as he finally stands up, straightening to his full height. And with a quick dust to his pant leg, he saunters around me and continues on his way without so much as another word.

Clutching my books to my chest, I stand on wobbly knees and turn to watch him disappear into the sea of green and gold, prowling after the group of jerks who quickly take off in fright at the sight of the Uchiha’s deadly pursuit, wondering if these past few moments really just happened.

And maybe I’m just soft, maybe I’ve just never had someone do something so simply kind for me, maybe it’s because this is the first time a boy has ever personally shown me something other than disdain.

Or maybe I’m just dramatic.

But if I hadn’t known any better, I’d say Sasuke Uchiha just changed my life.

\- x -

When the bell tingles, I look up from wiping the long countertop just in time to see the football players file into the diner.

My eyes find him immediately.

Sasuke wears a Konoha letterman jacket over ripped jeans, and disheveled onyx locks fall over the natural gloom of his eyes. Those deft fingers that helped me pick up my books are stuffed in his pockets and somehow, his posture is both relaxed and intimidating all at once.

Of its own accord, my heart jackhammers inside my ribcage and I swallow thickly.

Ayame greets them with crinkled laughing eyes and a bright smile, leading them straight to the window booth that has become their regular spot. “Well, I’ll _be_. Look who it is!”

“Hiya, Ayame!” Naruto replies, matching her enthusiasm with a winning smile that practically sparkles, sporting a letterman jacket of his own. When the players shuffle into the the worn leather booth, Naruto’s cerulean eyes slide past Ayame’s shoulder and meet mine. He waves, unabashedly calling across the restaurant. I can tell it’s a little forced, considering Ino is nowhere to be found today. They always make a better effort to include me when she’s around. “Oh, hey Sakura!”

My lips curl upward in a tiny smile and I give a small, timid wave in return. Feeling the sudden urge to look at Sasuke again, I glance hesitantly in his direction. He’s speaking quietly to Suigetsu next to him, hands moving slightly in a gesture that suggests he’s explaining something to him. Without warning, his eyes drift nonchalantly in my direction as if he can feel me watching him.

I’ve never started scrubbing the countertop so fast in my life.

“Hey babydoll, can you take them?” Ayame asks sweetly as she rounds the bar, wiping her slender hands on the front of her apron. “They‘re asking for you and I’ve gotta put another pot of coffee on before old man Tazuna wrings my neck.” She sighs, muttering quietly as she passes behind me to grab the coffee pot. _“_ You know how much that damn geezer hates lukewarm coffee.”

“Ah—sure.” I say, eyes flicking nervously to their table. Which is strange, because I’m never nervous to waitress the football players—not like I used to be. They come in just about every evening and I’ve grown used to their presence both here, and at school. There’s no reason for me to be anxious.

And yet, I clear my throat and tighten the bouncy ponytail pulled at the nape of my neck, smoothing my apron with sweaty palms and adjusting my appearance.

I brace myself as I stride over to their table and miraculously, I manage to keep my voice level—manage to keep the tremble out of my soft voice.

“Hi guys, how is everyone tonight?” A small, friendly smile plays on my lips, notepad in hand and pen ready to write. I purposely avoid looking at Sasuke, knowing that if I do, I’ll stammer like a complete idiot. So I keep my eyes trained on Naruto’s beaming face. With the way he’s smiling, it’s not a hard task to manage.

“We’re fantastic!” He tells me, and I laugh a little forcibly at his exuberance, effectively masking the nerves prickling in my gut. But even with this slight distraction, shifting on my feet, I feel Sasuke’s eyes on me. The heat that blossoms on my cheeks makes me want to hide my face in embarrassment. I hope my hair looks okay.

 _Look at you,_ The devil whispers in my ear, sawing through the depths of my subconscious. _So pathetically desperate for attention._

Grimacing, I immediately shake the thought about my appearance away. It shouldn’t matter what I look like because I _shouldn’t_ be caring about what Sasuke thinks, anyway. He would never, in all his lifetime, spare a mess like me a second glance.

Self-consciously, I brush a lock of hair behind my ear and give Naruto a stiff, earnest smile. “That’s great to hear,” I say gently, “What can I get started for you?”

As I begin taking their orders, the corners of my mouth tighten and my heart jumps tenfold as I make my way around the table to Sasuke. One by one, I take their orders, butterflies flapping in my stomach the closer I get to him. When Suigetsu finishes his hefty order, inevitably, my eyes slide almost reluctantly to meet onyx orbs. I startle inwardly when I find him already looking at me—dark eyes burning into my own with an intensity that sets my blood ablaze. But then I feel stupid when I realize, _of course he‘s looking at me_ , because I’m the waitress and he’s about to tell me what he wants to order.

“And—And for you?” I remind myself to breathe.

“Just water.” He replies softly, voice cool and deep, looking me straight in the eyes.

I drop my gaze with a nod, needlessly scribbling the single word on my notepad.

When their food and drinks are brought out, the group of hungry football players set to working on satisfying their generous stomachs. Their casual laughing banter as they eat carries throughout the emptying parlor, filling the diner with a lax air of comfort.

But even as I wipe down booths, bus tables, and continue cleaning the countertop, my green eyes can’t help but drift to them every few minutes.

To _him_.

Like the strenuous pull of a massive magnet, my eyes are forcibly drawn to him.

I watch him as he listens to the exaggerated story that Kiba is practically shouting across the table, casually sipping his water and looking as if he’s just stepped out of every teenage girl’s daydream—or rather, _my_ own personal daydream. I watch the corner of his lip twitch upward when Kiba says something funny, the way he absentmindedly swirls around the remaining liquid in his pebbled plastic cup.

After a while, he rolls his broad shoulders, adjusting himself in the uncomfortable booth they’ve been sitting in for at least an hour now. The sky has long since died, and thus the interior of the diner has taken to a brightness in contrast to the black settling outside the windows. Beneath the low lamp hanging above their table, lit by the soft cream fluorescence, his beauty is even more alluring than ever before.

The more I watch him, the more something unfamiliar aches inside my chest. An instinctive, primal want to be close to this person—to this boy who, without second thought, without hesitation, dropped to a knee in front of the whole school and chased off bullies to help someone as pathetic as I. A small kindness most likely already forgotten by him, but will never be forgotten by me.

Perhaps I’m overthinking, but the swell of my heart with every tilt of his lips, with every slight upward flick of his amused eyebrows, reminds me that, indeed, what little I feel for him is very real. I don’t really understand _what_ it is that I feel—maybe it’s appreciation, maybe it’s gratitude, or maybe it’s admiration. All I know is that the calmness softening his usually sharp features, the gentle contentment in his dark eyes as he sits among his closest friends, makes my own features soften.

I find myself wondering what kind of person he is; if he is compassionate, if he is gentle, if he suffers in the shadows or hides behind a plastic face as impeccable as mine. I wonder, maybe, if—

“See something you like?”

“Oh— _Jesus!_ ” I startle when Ayame’s mischievous voice whispers against the shell of my ear. I nearly drop the coffee mug I’ve been wiping down in my hands for five minutes straight. “ _Ayame!_ ” I reprimand with a harsh whisper, an embarrassed scowl on my face. By the wise look on her expression and the caramel eyes that flick to _their_ table, I already know that I’ve been caught red-handed ogling the quarterback.

Ayame chuckles lightheartedly, patting my shoulder with the comforting reassurance of a mother I haven’t known for years. I naturally startle, stiffening at the physical contact before I forcibly slacken my shoulders; before she notices my imperceptible reaction. “It’s okay, honey.” She tells me kindly, gently prying the squeaky clean mug from my hands and setting it to the side. She nods to the football players who are now exchanging leftovers. “Which one?”

I choke on my own spit, playing stupid. “Which one _what?_ ”

Ayame leans her elbows on the countertop, head in her hands, and proceeds to gives me look drier than sand. “Darlin’, you have got to be the worst actor I have ever damn near seen in all my lifetime.”

“I’m not acting.” I insist, grabbing another coffee mug to wipe down just for something to do with my fidgeting hands.

“What kind of stupid do you take me for, child?”

I scrub the mug with a little more force than necessary before picking up another, channeling my frustration into scrubbing the innocent porcelain. “I don’t know what you mean.”

I refuse to meet her smug, inquisitive eyes that search my face, pointedly ignoring the obvious. She’s not stupid by any sense of the word; Ayame is a woman wise beyond her years. Understanding in her sweet empathy and loving in nature, she is a woman pure of heart.

But, should you cross her, God help you; she will not hesitate to smash your skull in with the baseball bat she keeps hidden beneath the front counter at all times.

Needless to say, I trust her.

“You’re sweet on one of ‘em.” She murmurs as she indicates in their direction with the dart of her eyes, smiling impishly at her own observation. “Which one?”

“None of them.” I say, because saying his name out loud will only solidify the fear that’s been sprouting inside of me since the moment he looked into my eyes with nothing but raw sincerity.

For a moment, I think she is going to dig further, but a deep sigh escapes her ruby lips and she pushes off the counter and disappears beyond the kitchen doors behind us without another word, leaving me to my treacherous thoughts.

Once alone and safe from prying eyes, I resume my inner reflection and casually look up at him once more.

Only for his dark eyes to meet mine from across the room.

Brain short circuiting, heart jumping, my gaze falls to the trembling porcelain in my hands. I don’t raise my eyes for the rest of my shift.

At school, I absentmindedly listen to everyone’s conversations at lunch; the gushing of weekend plans and football jargon that I try to understand for their sake, but never do. My ears only perk up when I hear his quiet, smooth voice that seldom speaks. Sasuke doesn’t talk much—in fact, he rarely talks at all. But when he does, the pencil in my hand stops in its tracks and the deep silk of his voice caresses my ear drums, making it nearly impossible not to look up at his handsome face.

I find it hard to admit to myself that I find him attractive, because I know someone as used up and broken as myself will never deserve someone as beautiful and untainted as Sasuke Uchiha.

The problem is, trying to convince myself that Sasuke isn’t attractive is like trying to convince myself that fire isn’t hot. And if I stick my hand in flames, I’m still going to get burned.

He’s popular with the girls, but being the quarterback of the football team and obscenely gorgeous, that’s just what’s expected. I often hear his name on whispered lips and giggling soprano voices, but maybe that’s just because I have selective hearing.

From across the table, Sasuke is hard not to watch. His mannerisms are quaint, perhaps even a little peculiar. The way he pushes around the plump, crescent slices of tomato to the far side of his lunch tray, like he can’t stand the idea of the red fruit touching the uneaten sandwich that sits neatly on the opposite side. Or how he sometimes just sits with his fingers laced beneath his nose, onyx eyes glazed over in deep thought for the entire period.

For a while, as the weeks pass, I‘m able to tame the strange attraction I feel towards the boy that sits across from me everyday, worlds apart. He’s in a few of my classes, and when my eyes seldom stray from the floor, I see that he sometimes passes me in the hall.

For a while, I‘m able to pretend I don’t daydream about what it would feel like to have his warm fingers brush against my skin again. I‘m able to pretend that it isn’t Sasuke’s tongue I imagine slithering into my mouth in place of the devil’s, as my brain desperately reaches for any morsel of mental self-protection.

As the devil rams into my body with a fury that wracks my whole frame, as my pert nose is shoved flat against the floorboards, I don’t reward him with any response. Instead, behind tightly pinched eyelids, I imagine Sasuke’s soft knuckles running along the apple of my cheeks. I replay the feel of his fingers along mine. I reach for that comfort, that feeling—anything that spares me even a _moment_ away from this fucking torment.

As the devil shoves his claws into my back and throws me down the flight of stairs, the crack of my skull against every step is deafened by the soft, soothing sound of his voice.

_“Sorry.”_

_“This won’t happen again, Sakura.”_

For a while, I‘m able to pretend that I don’t curl into a ball beneath my blankets every night, bleeding and broken, as I imagine those gentle fingers handing me my books over and over again until sleep swallows my trembling form in the orange kiss of dawn.

I‘m able to pretend he isn’t the reason I’ve been stronger these past few weeks, holding onto sanity by a thread.

I’m able to pretend, because that’s all I’ve ever known.

But it isn’t enough.

It’s never enough.

I think perhaps something so silly will be temporary—that eventually, inevitably, I will regress back into a grey glob of emptiness, and that the thoughts of Sasuke’s gentle hands and dark eyes will no longer color my days, but will slowly fade into monochrome nothingness. That I will return to the mantra of living _until tomorrow_ , and not _until I see him again_.

But as the time passes and my desperation to remain sane grows, so too does my “feelings” for him.

I have no real reason to like Sasuke, we’re not really friends—just acquaintances by association. It’s pathetic, really. He shows me the smallest act of kindness and suddenly my world shifts on its axis.

I start to think that I’m genuinely psychotic; that I’m absolutely insane for placing this—this _stranger_ inside my head. I’m crazy for thinking about Sasuke in place of _him_ , for it makes the devil’s punishment that much more tolerable. That if I close my eyes, I can imagine his soft, warm fingers slipping beneath my waistband instead of the callous paws of my own father. A sick mental substitution brought on by my brain’s defense mechanism to keep me from breaking completely.

Because somewhere deep within, some broken part of me insists that Sasuke is _safe_.

Correction—because this fucked up, conjured projection of him inside my head is _safe_.

That I have resorted to something so shameful as borrowing his image, his touch, his comfort, in the midst of my selfish desperation . . .

I think that I have finally, completely, utterly, and totally lost my mind.

Except, I know what is real, and what is not. I know that these projections are a sick sort of barrier; a shield protecting me from the reality that I am consistently ripped from the inside out and torn from the outside in.

I know that my “feelings” aren’t necessarily _real_. They can’t be. I am grateful for that single act of kindness, of this I know. The gratitude I feel for him is _real_. Anything beyond this, however, is made up. My brain simply fills in the blanks of who I imagine him to be. Of who I _want_ him to be. Of who he showed me, in the matter of a few moments, a glimpse of who he _might_ be.

And I’ve never hated myself more.

I don’t want to think about him any longer. I don’t want to hear his voice or imagine his fingers on mine. I want to hate him, because I know I am supposed to _suffer_. I don’t deserve to think about him—he doesn’t deserve to be in a fucked up mind like mine. I don’t deserve to think about his kindness that has left a throbbing scar on my brittle heart and a dent in my once unshakable resolve.

God, I just want to forget about him and go back to the way things used to be. Back when I just closed my eyes and let the numbness swallow my soul. Why is he here, in my head? Have I gone completely mad? Is there something I am missing? Is this just another form of torment brought upon me by the God who hates me so?

Please, Sasuke.

Take your gentle hands and your tender eyes and your soft voice, and just— _just_ _leave me the hell alone!_

But even so, when he’s called on in class, that smooth voice pulls my eyes from the windows like the sound fishhooks my heart, and I can’t help but stare at him.

One time he catches me, and I startle so terribly I think my heart stops.

And I hate myself just a little bit more.

I try—so, _so_ very hard—not to let myself think about him because I am a stain on the wall, and he is a masterpiece etched in gold. I am the stilted wick of a candle, and he is a shooting star so bright above the world that the stardust left in his wake lights the whole sky. He is a breath of fresh air on a cold winter’s night, and I am a puff of cigarette smoke on chapped lips.

He is everything. I am nothing.

But that’s okay with me, I finally realize one day as I stare beyond the classroom’s windowpane at a lone tree, absently watching the trickle of raindrops slip from the leaves and plop into the mud.

It’s okay to want to feel safe, I suddenly realize.

Even if it isn’t real.

And so, as the rainy month of September melts into the colorful autumn of October, I watch from a distance, think of his gentle fingers when I’m in need of hope, and keep my guilty eyes glued to the scuffed journal in my hands—lest he look right through me and see for himself my selfish need for his reassurance.

I can just picture the disgust on his face if he ever knew how often the ghost of him pieces me back together in the dark.

 _He knows you’re disgusting_ , the devil breathes down my spine. _He knows you are filthy. He knows you are wretched. He knows you are worthless. He only helped you that one time out of pity. Don’t ever think otherwise._

In reality, we are strangers.

He is Sasuke; the brave, the perfect, the strong.

And I am Sakura; the broken, the worthless, the used.

This is how it is, has been, and will forever be.

That is, until one day, in the mere blink of an eye—

**_Everything._ **

_Changes_.

\- x -


	3. Chapter 3

_**Superman** _

Chapter 2

x

The change happens in gym, of all places.

As a class, we play Soccer outside, taking advantage of the crisp fall air and the sun peaking through the heavy clouds. Our instructor insists such weather is perfect for “youthful” practice, as it is not too hot nor too cold.

I absolutely love Soccer.

I love the adrenaline rush of racing through the muddy grass, the opposing team on my heels, and the feel of the ball bouncing between the arches of my feet as I travel to the goal.

Today, however, _I_ am the goalie.

Jumping from one side to the other, I huff and puff as I lurch sideways to block every ball that threatens to pass. I’m good at it, too. My eyes dart left to right in anticipation, thriving on the thrill of physical exertion and loving every second I spend hopping to and fro, keeping the opposing team from scoring a goal.

For the occasion, I have changed into simple shorts and a T-shirt as opposed to my grey hoodie and black leggings. In the locker room’s bathroom stall, I made quick work of lathering concealer over the bruises that paint my legs and arms before I revealed myself to any unwanted wandering eyes.

Even if it’s risky, if I am to have a full range of motion, the change of clothes is particularly important.

But today, it is my downfall.

Slightly crouching in anticipation, I shuffle side to side as my eye trails after the ball, which is being traveled down the field by none other than Sasuke Uchiha himself, who is on the opposing team. I try not to be distracted by him, but it’s hard when he’s in a T-shirt and loose shorts, showcasing his flexing muscles that make my heart ache. His passive face remains firmly focused on the ball between his toes, sweat on his brow.

It is specifically this that makes me lose focus, despite my eagerness to keep the other team from scoring.

He’s coming towards me at a concerning speed, but it doesn’t intimidate me in the least. My feet are already shuffling in tune with his movements, mirroring the direction he travels.

As he gets closer, I bite my lip, body coiling as I prepare to jump and stop the ball from reaching the white net behind me.

 _Your effort is adorable, Sasuke, but you aren’t winning today. Not on my watch_.

A small smile curves my lips, enjoying this trivial moment of pure excitement as he draws even closer.

And when he is merely six feet away, dark eyes meet mine in enthusiastic challenge, leg jerking back in preparation to send the soccer ball soaring passed me.

Instead, however, the moment his powerful shoe bows toward the ball, I have lost myself in the attractive smirk on his face, and I completely relinquish concentration.

I don’t even realize when Sasuke’s powerful kick has met the ball.

There is only a second of realization before my vision goes white and a brutal, round object smashes my nose, sending my head backwards and my whole body onto the shallow, hard grass.

For a moment, I have no idea what the hell just happened, or why the sky is spinning at 100MPH. I lay flat, arms out at my sides, completely delirious.

“ _Fuck!_ ” There’s a wild curse and the sound of footsteps on grass growing closer, but that’s all I’m able to register as my eyes practically roll around in my sockets. I think my nose is bleeding.

“Sakura, are you—?“ A deep voice begins somewhere above me, but is interrupted by something I am unaware of.

Blinking, finally coming back to reality, I groan and sit up on my elbows, oblivious at first to the way Sasuke’s wide eyes are frozen on my form.

When my eyes finally focus, the first thing I see is his strong calves and black shoes. But as my gaze travels up his lean body, I take note of his expression.

Of the raw, striking fear in his eyes.

“Sasuke—?”

And then, after mere seconds, it hits me.

I follow his wide eyes to my bare, upper thigh, which has been uncovered by my fall and the lift of my loose shorts.

I follow his wide eyes to the angry, red slits that mark every inch of my ivory skin.

Dark eyebrows flick up beneath the fringe of his bangs.

And in the sun-flecked grey of his orbs, black pupils shrink to trembling pinpricks.

A sharp inhale escapes my lips before my fingers are scrambling to pull the fabric down, stomach flip flopping and heart thrashing against my ribcage at the shock.

“I’m—I’m fine!” I call out frantically, making sure that those who have finally come up behind him hear the reassurance in my voice and see that I am, indeed, just _fine_.

A warm trickle of liquid touches my upper lip and I hesitantly tap it, eyes widening at the bright red coating my index finger when I retract it from my face. When I look back up at Sasuke, however, his expression is still frozen in horror, eyes never moving from the spot now covered by the fabric of my shorts.

Dread coils deep within my gut and all I can think of is— _why him?_

Why, of all people, does it have to be him?

After a few more excruciating, long moments of heavy silence, his eyes finally find mine.

The naked fear in his obsidian orbs parallels mine.

I have no idea what to do, or how to recover from something like this. Even though I am quick enough to cover my upper legs before anyone else sees, it doesn’t matter now.

Because Sasuke has seen it.

Sasuke has seen, with his very own eyes, the cuts that line my thighs—the cuts that nobody in the world, save for the devil, has ever seen.

Tears are already stinging my eyes, even as I jump back onto my feet and brush the loose grass off my bottom. The aching fear in my heart nearly knocks the wind from my lungs, because he still hasn’t moved.

The rest of our classmates have crowded behind him, murmuring concern as they look me up and down. But their faces are merely a blurred mosaic in the background, as Sasuke’s unblinking expression remains in crystal clear focus.

He just stares at me, petrified.

A tear escaping the corner of my eye is wiped away by the back of my swift hand before it can fall over my cheeks.

Sasuke’s mouth opens and closes, surely at loss of what to say.

Because what do you even say after seeing something as harrowing as fifty self-inflicted cuts on one’s skin?

“—get you to the nurse’s office.” I hear someone to the left of me say, saving the Uchiha any words that might have fallen out of his mouth. The sentence scares me at first, until I realize my nose is profusely bleeding. My eyes never leave Sasuke’s as the teacher slowly guides me off the field, and it’s only until I have to turn my back on him that I finally sever our gaze. Even so, I look over my shoulder, heart clenching when I see his wide dark eyes still watching me, following me long after I’ve disappeared into the school building.

\- x -

At lunch, it’s hard to ignore the dark gaze that drifts to my face every few minutes.

Even with my full attention glued to the journal beneath my pencil, I can feel the weight of his eyes burning into my flesh—scrutinizing me, studying me. _Questioning_ me.

 _Leave me alone_ , I want to snarl at him. _It’s none of your buisness_ , I want to hiss through clenched teeth every time he thinks I don’t see his eyes flicker to my face.

_Stop_ **_looking_ ** _at me._

_Stop_ **_judging_ ** _me._

My hand clenches around the pencil in my grip after the fifth day in a row that his eyes ceaselessly glance in my direction.

“ _What_?” I ask finally, lips trembling as I lift my head with startling speed to catch him in the act.

Surprisingly, Sasuke doesn’t look away, nor does he flinch at being caught. He holds my gaze firmly, onyx eyes flickering over my face like he’s never seen me before. I feel vulnerable suddenly, like I’m naked before him. Like he can see every bruise beneath the concealer, every cut beneath my leggings, and every laceration on my heart with startling clarity. He blinks slow, steady, and with something strangely heavy in his passive eyes as he takes me in.

I want to know what it is that he sees. What he could be possibly thinking. Whatever it is, it can’t be good.

 _He knows_ , the devil caresses my ear. _He knows you are diseased. He knows you are used. He knows you think of him in the midst of the devil’s deed._

_He knows._

_He knows._

_He_ **_knows_ ** _._

_Do something, Sakura!_

“ _What_ , Sasuke?” I breathe in exasperation when he doesn’t answer, a little louder than I intend, attracting the attention of the others around the table.

“Sakura?” Ino frowns, drawn from her conversation with Kiba. Her blue eyes dart from me to Sasuke with worry, and perhaps a bit of suspicion. The rest of the heads around the table turn to us with curiosity. “What’s wrong?”

Inhaling slowly, I release a shuddering breath, retracting into myself. “Nothing.” I whisper, eyes stinging with mortification as they drop to my lap. My shoulders hunch inward, shrinking underneath the unwanted attention.

In the evenings, when the football team slinks into the diner, I make sure to keep my gaze down at all times.

I am ashamed, so incredibly disappointed in myself for having exposed such a raw part of my suffering to the one person I secretly seek comfort in—real or not.

I know he’s looking at me.

I always know.

But even as I take their orders, I make sure to never hold eye contact with him for longer than a few seconds. The moment my back is turned, my face crumples with grief.

Deep inside of me, I am somewhat thankful someone finally knows.

But why does it have to be _him_?

Why does it have to be Sasuke?

My heart cracks painfully at the thought. Because for once, I was happy with just harmless, silly fantasies—I was content with my imagination as I continued to picture his soft hands caressing my own in the deepest, darkest moments of my life. I was happy with pretending along with his projected self inside my head.

But now he knows.

And there’s nothing I can do—nothing I can change.

As I refill his water, tipping the pitcher to fill his cup, my fingers tremble of their own accord and I try with all my might not to spill the liquid.

Sasuke’s eyes are on me again, and as a result, my nerves spike and I spill the water anyways, heart racing as my body quivers uncontrollably.

“Oh—!” I gasp when the water spills onto the wooden tabletop and leaks over the edge, onto his lap.

I scramble for napkins, dabbing frantically at my stupid mess, cursing myself over and over.

 _Stupid, dumb bitch._ The devil reprimands. _Now look what you’ve done._

My hands race to clean up the mess, chest heaving as the panic begins to build inside my lungs.

“I’m so sorry,” I breathe, tears trembling along the rim of my eyes. “I’m so, _so_ sorry!”

His warm fingers stop my hand in its tracks, wrapping around my wrist and stilling my breath completely. My heart hammers against my chest, blood running both hot and cold with prickling adrenaline. I stiffen as I look up, swallowing audibly when his eyes burn into mine.

“It’s fine.” Sasuke assures me kindly, voice soft—as if he were coaxing a terrified, wild animal into nibbling food from his palm. “It’s okay, Sakura.”

When I begin to shake, his fingers tighten around my wrist in consolation. “It’s _okay_.” He insists, communicating something far deeper to me with his eyes that nobody else around us could possibly pick up on. Like he secretly knows what’s happening; like he knows I’m a breath away from hyperventilating. He’s trying to calm me down. Onyx orbs remain gentle with understanding, even as I weakly tug against his hold, persistent on scrubbing up my idiotic mess. His firm grip keeps me from moving, the warmth of his palm still engulfing the small of my wrist. “It’s _alright_.”

The football players all stare at us in confusion, clearly unaware of the inner turmoil thrashing within my chest—unaware of the panic attack threatening to explode forth. I startle slightly when his thumb gently strokes the inside of my wrist, forcing my breath to slide into a slower rhythm. I know he can feel the crazed pace of my pulse under his fingers. Our eyes stay locked. “It’s just water.” He says with a slight shake of his head, and then repeats even softer: “It’s just _water_ , Sakura. It’s alright.”

I nearly to burst into tears.

When his fingers finally release me, when his warmth disappears, I feel as if I’ve been thrown out to sea and the anchor holding me steady breaks from its chains. I stumble backwards in embarrassment before I hurriedly run across the parlor and round the counter, pushing through the kitchen doors where it’s only then that the tears burst from my eyes and my face buries into Ayame’s unsuspecting chest.

“Sakura!?” She gasps, arms already wrapping around me without hesitation. “What in Jesus’s name—?!”

I say nothing. Instead, my salty tears soak into the breast of her apron and I tremble silently in her arms.

Ayame takes over the table for the rest of the night, while I shamefully hide behind closed doors and wash the dishes.

\- x -

“What did I tell you about this fucking mess?”

Eyes glued submissively to the kitchen tile, I don’t look up as I mumble, “To make sure it’s clean before you get home.”

“And is it?” I can smell the whisky even from where I stand a few feet away from him.

“No.” I whisper.

I feel the pain before I even register that his claws are in my hair. He yanks my head backwards and a keening yelp rips from my throat before I can stop it. My eyes are constrained to the ceiling as he continues to drag me backwards by my pink locks to the sink, forcing my head beneath the faucet as the grime from the pile of dirty dishes soils my hair.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to— _please_ —!” My useless voice begs before he leans over and twists the hot water on high. With my mouth open in silent plea, I gag immediately on the violent jet stream that shoots down my throat. With his painful fingers threaded in my scalp to keep my head from thrashing, my mouth fills with scalding water, burning the walls of my throat like I am swallowing molten lava. My screams are muffled by the gurgle of boiling water, lungs filling with the unsuspecting onslaught of liquid.

 _Please, kill me._ I silently plead to anyone who can hear me, _please, please, please—_

 _“It’s okay, Sakura.”_ Sasuke’s soft voice murmurs in my ears. _“It’s just water.”_

 _“It’s_ alright _.”_

 _“It’s just_ water _.”_ I feel the ghost of his warm fingers wrapping around my wrist. The gentle stroke of his thumb along my pulse.

_Just water._

—but I am still alive when I violently cough and choke on the turbulent jet stream, eyes rolling into the back of my head as my throat is singed raw. My chest burns with the force of a thousand suns, needles piercing my lungs with every rise and fall.

“ _St—!_ ” Is the only sound that escapes through the scalding liquid bubbling over my mouth, rolling down the sides of my face, and drenching my hair.

After what feels like hours, the devil finally releases me, tossing me onto the tile like I am anything but his daughter. The excruciating strike of my chin against the hard floor doesn’t register when my lungs feel like they’ve been broiled over an open flame. My palms lay flat against either side of my bruising face, body trembling.

“Next time, it won’t be a warning.”

I heave desperately against the cold tile, aching lungs expanding and constricting at frightening speed, fighting to draw precious air.

His heavy footsteps disappear somewhere past the open threshold and vanish beyond my blurred vision.

It’s only then that a guttural, defeated cry tears from my throat before I crumble in anguish, eyes pinched shut, fingers twitching on the cold tile.

Lying alone on the kitchen floor, my shaking sobs go unheard, echoing through the halls, drifting over the deaf ears of a comatose mother, swept out the open living room window, and carried along a passing breeze that disappears into the cloudless, starry night.

\- x -

“What happened to your face?”

It takes a moment for me to realize the question is for me.

I glance up from doodling, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. I’m not quite sure what he’s talking about. The pads of my fingertips touch my cheeks.

“What?” I ask quietly, stiffening.

“What happened to your face?” Naruto repeats, pointing to his cheek in indication. “Did you get stung by a bee or something?”

Cold, icy fear drops into my gut at the realization that he’s talking about the swell of my cheekbone, where the devil ground his knuckles into my face just the night prior. Usually, I hold a hot compress to anywhere a particularly nasty strike is sure to leave more than I can cover up with concealer, making sure to keep the mark from swelling. Making sure to keep situations like now, from happening.

But last night, I forgot. And this morning, I didn’t think much of it as I simply lathered the usual layers of concealer over the black and blue painting my entire face.

I _forgot_.

In my peripherals, Sasuke’s dark eyes are on me.

Always, they are on me.

The fear inside of me explodes tenfold, panic zipping through my veins and electric dread shooting down my spine. Outwardly, I remain tense, lip quivering even as I offer the most pathetic, excuse of a smile I’ve probably ever attempted.

“Oh— _this_?” I forcibly laugh, ignoring the stinging tears glossing the fake crinkle of my green eyes. The tight knot in my throat makes it nearly impossible to swallow as I continue, “It’s—I’m allergic to my fabric softener.” My teeth sink into my lip to keep the sob in the back of my mouth from escaping. The corners of my smile twitch, but I’m smiling nonetheless as I casually lie to their faces. “Sometimes my dad forgets and buys the wrong one. And then when I sleep on my newly washed pillowcase, I wake up to this.” I point to the tender swell of my cheek, still smiling. “Stupid, right?”

Ino’s baby blue eyes are apologetic, looking at me with shameful sympathy.

 _Laugh_ , I remind myself. The awkward chuckle I release makes me cringe inwardly, but by the understanding on his tan face, Naruto seems to buy it.

Sasuke, however, clearly does not.

The narrowing, skeptical gaze out of the corner of my eye has me shifting uncomfortably in my seat. I pretend not to notice as I go back to sketching a woman standing in the rain, heart rate slowing at my quick save.

“Which softener?”

My head snaps up. “Huh?”

“Which softener are you allergic to?” Sasuke repeats, face passive. I don’t miss the suspicious gleam in his eyes. He’s challenging me.

Daring me to lie straight to his face.

The icy panic comes back with a vengeance, pulse kickstarting. “I—I uh, don’t know the name of it. Starts with a T, or something. I mean, who knows their softeners by name anyway, right?” I nervously ramble on, digging myself into an even deeper hole. I don’t look him in the eye, not even once. “I couldn’t even tell you the name of my detergent,” _Lie_. “My dad just buys it.” _Lie_.

 _I_ buy every household necessity; every tube of toothpaste, every roll of toilet paper, every bottle of shampoo—all with my meager leftover tips that aren’t taken by the devil himself for “rent”. The rest of the money I manage to hide remains stuffed beneath my mattress.

Sasuke remains silent, studying me with obsidian orbs that flicker over every part my face, my hair, my fingers—like he’s searching for something he might have missed the first hundred times he’s looked at me. When his eyes find mine, I quickly drop my gaze back to my journal and continue to swipe the charcoal tip over the already shaded strokes. Without looking up I know, even after two full minutes, that he’s still staring at me.

I can _feel_ his gaze. I can _feel_ his distrust, hidden beneath his heavy silence.

Sasuke knows I’ve just lied to his face.

He knows. God, he _knows_.

But he can’t know. Because if he finds out about the fists that decorate my skin, if he discovers that the devil rips my soul in two and leaves me bare to bleed in the refuge of my sheets—

_‘You keep our little secret safe, and I won’t spill Mommy’s insides all over the carpet. Deal?’_

I do the only thing I know how to do.

Hyperventilate.

My chest suddenly heaves with the weight of a thousand nights of torture—with the sharp, swelling sting of twelve years without so much as a whisper of mercy.

I heave.

And I heave.

_I can’t breathe._

_He knows._

_He knows._

**_God, he fucking knows!_ **

Someone is yelling my name.

But the plethora of fright around me dissipates behind a veil of memories; of terror and screams and crimson rivulets in the shape of tears. Everything around me blurs behind the gloss of liquid that blinds my green eyes, and I can’t fucking _breathe_.

_“Sakura!?”_

I shake and I tremble, lost in the catacombs of my mind, the echoing of the devil’s promise burning in my throat like the flickering flames of the sun.

_“Cry, you stupid bitch.”_

_“Scream all you want.”_

_“Nobody will ever hear you.”_

_“Nobody gives a fuck about you.”_

My palms slap against my ears as if it will deafen the turbulence in my head as I let out a whimper that shudders my lungs and cracks my bleeding heart in two.

**_”Cry.”_ **

I am oblivious to the several worried eyes that snap in my direction.

Oblivious to the onyx eyes that are wide with fright.

And then, I attempt to run.

Like the coward I’ve always been.

_Like you will always be._

I leap out of my seat, lips curled in agony, eyes pinched with grief, falling forward when the vertigo tips my stomach over as if I were dropped from a cliff and into a thrashing sea. My palms smack against the table to steady myself, a sob breaking through my lips as my chair scraps backward and I stand on two legs that threaten to give way beneath my weight.

A hand shoots forward to latch onto my wrist.

But it’s far too late.

I rip my wrist out of Sasuke’s grip with such force that I stumble, tripping over the chair behind me and falling backwards onto the linoleum that rises up to meet the back of my skull with a _crack!_ that reverberates through every my bone in my body.

A shrill voice screams in alarm—Ino.

The white ceiling above me dances with the bokeh of blurred lights.

_“Don’t think for a fucking moment . . .”_

Several dark silhouettes appear above me, leaning over my trembling body and eclipsing the sparkling fluorescent lights above.

_“. . . that you matter.”_

As I shake violently, I am unaware of the growing crowd that has formed a ring around me. Unaware of the frightened faces frozen in horror as they lean in close, lips moving with words that never reach past the cotton in my ears.

All I can see is the sweat dripping down the face of _him_ , of the creature that has defiled and maimed my body and soul since I could sing my ABC’s. All I can feel is my throat burning raw with the thrust of my screams.

All I can see is the gleaming edge of the knife and horrified green eyes staring back from its reflection.

_“You love Mommy, don’t you?”_

He’s going to kill her.

_“Wouldn’t you do_ **_anything_ ** _for her?”_

He’s going to slit her throat and watch as she chokes on her own blood, watch as her hands fly up to try and stop the waterfall of liquid pouring down the column of her throat.

He’s going to take Mom away from me.

_“Take a deep breath,” She whispers into the warm glow of the dining room, “and make a wish.”_

_She glances up at Daddy, sharing a coy smile and blushing when his stern lips quirk with affection._

_“Go ahead, baby.” Mom encourages when her hazel eyes find mine once more. Soft, beautiful features are enhanced by the flickering glow of four candles. “Wish for anything you want.”_

_I shut my eyes quickly, biting my lip with the excitement of tasting the first dollop of pink icing decorating the brim of my pretty cake._

_‘I wish that when I grow up, I will be just as pretty as mommy.’_

_My lips purse with the puff of air I use to blow out all four candles._

The gentle clapping of hands echo in my memory as the tail of candle smoke billows into darkness, taking my consciousness along with it.


End file.
